


A Story of Ice and Fire

by orphan_account



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Bad Writing, Don't Like Don't Read, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/M, Gore, It's gonna be rough, Mental Abuse, Out of Character, Physical Abuse, Rape, Sexual Content, Split/Double personality, Torture, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:02:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 17,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22213744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A tale of love and betrayal. War and death. Violence and pain.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 50
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm making some changes to the canon. For example Sansa is still at Winterfell at the time of Jon's resurrection.

_**Theon** _

Theon remembered the day he took Winterfell.

_Not Theon. He was dead. There is only Reek._

He felt so strong.

_Greyjoy was weak!_

All he did was take the home of his true family.

_Theon had no family. Greyjoy hate him. Stark want him dead. There is only Reek._

He made a cripple and a boy homeless.

_Theon loved Theon. That is why he died. Reeks loves Master. That is why Reek lives._

He killed the man who taught him how to fight.

_Reek would never kill Master. Reek knows our place._

He killed two little boys.

_Theon kills. Reek only helps. Reek is good._

He betrayed the memory of the man who taught him honour, treated him like his own

_Reek would never betray Master. Master is too Kind._

He betrayed his brother Robb.

_Theon is a turncloak! Theon is a turncloak! Theon let his brother die!_

He betrayed his sister Sansa.

_Theon let his sister get raped! Theon let his sister get raped! All he did was sniffle!_

Why was living so hard?

_Because you deserve it. Theon deserves pain. Only Reek is allowed to die._

Theon fell asleep, hounds snoring loudly around him, his dreams twisted, dark and filled with pain and betrayal.

_**Jon Snow** _

He felt nothing. Why should he? Jon Snow was dead.

Then why was he breathing?

He was gasping, staring wildly upwards, Ghost excitedly licking and biting his fingers.

He blinked. He blinked away the images of Aliser Thorne, Bowen Marsh and Othell Yarwyck. He blinked away the coldness of the daggers. Blinked away the hatred, superiority and indifference. 

_Olly_

Jon sobbed, clutching onto Ghost's neck, weeping unashamedly into the warm fur. He felt something rough and itchy placed on his shoulders and span around, fists clenched and punched whoever had just touched him in the face. He heard a surprised yell as the man fell, the blanket he had placed on Jon falling with him to the floor. Jon felt slightly guilty when he saw it was Ser Davos and helped the old man up.

"It's alright lad, I'm fine." he said, pulling himself up and rubbing his jaw. "Wasn't expectin' that I can tell you."

Jon just stood, shaking as the cold began to bite and he fell, Davos catching him in his arms. 

"Steady on son." the elderly man said gently. "Steady on."

Jon slumped gently to the floor, Davos once again wrapping the blanket around Jon's shoulders, this time not receiving a roundhouse punch to the face.

Jon gasped as he looked down his body and saw the angry, blood red lines on his torso. He could see the daggers slip in and out of him. He could feel the coldness of the metal, the coldness in the eyes of his murderers, the coldness of the snow.

Ghost approached him again as Jon sobbed once more. but all Jon could see was the snow, Not the Ghost's white fur. Snow.

Ghost went to nuzzle him but he cried out and pushed him away, scrambling to his feet and away from the snow. Away from the knives.

Ghost wined softly and Davos turned to the wolf, who was taller than him on his knees.

"Snow! Snow! Snow!" Jon sobbed, clutching himself and uncaring of his nakedness.

It took Davos only a moment to connect the two things together and he said softly to the massive wolf, "It's better for him if you go."

The wolf growled at him and Davos tried not to flinch, even when the ruby red eyes turned murderous. 

"He thinks your snow." Davos said, unsure how to explain to a giant, snarling wolf that his master thought he was the last thing he ever saw. 

The wolf huffed and looked between it's master and Davos. It took a tentative step towards Snow and when the chanting rose in sound and fervour the wolf seemed to realise his presence was causing more harm than good. It let out a sad whine and left the room, leaving Davos shaking his head at it's intelligence. 

Jon watched as Davos pulled himself up and approached him. Jon felt the salty taste of his tears and his face was wet from them too. Davos walked, slowly hand raised to show he was not a threat and gently pulled Jon onto the slab where his cold, dead body was laid moments ago. Jon felt bile in his throat and his retched but nothing came out. 

"It's okay lad your alive and safe now." Davos said softly, sitting next to Jon and keeping an arm wrapped around his should in an almost fatherly gesture.

Jon continued to weep, seeing nothing but snow and daggers and feeling nothing but pain and cold. Eventually he managed to gain control of himself and wipe his eyes and face, breathing heavy and laboured. 

"How am I alive?" he rasped, eyes turning to face Davos.

"The Red Woman brought you back." Davos quietly replied and for a long moment there was silence.

"My own men." Jon rasped softly, his chest tightening and feeling the indescribable pain of betrayal. "They killed me. Killed me for doing what I thought was right. And now I'm back."

Jon paused and there was another moment of silence, Davos' warm, fatherly eyes urging him to continue. 

"None of this makes any sense." Jon sighed, his chest taught and coiled, feeling nothing but coldness and pain.

"No it doesn't." Davos agreed. "All of this is fucking mad. But your here now and there's battles that need to be fought."

For the first moment since he was brought back from the endless black of death, Jon saw glowing blue eyes and rising corpses and felt a familiar fear trickle up his spine.

"There's no point." Jon rasped bitterly. "I fought. And I lost." 

"Good." Davos said sincerely. "Now go fail again." 

Jon and Davos sat there for a long time in contemplative silence. Finally Jon turned to Davos, who turned to look at him, anticipating a question.

"If I'm going to fight." Jon said. "I'm gonna need some clothes."

Davos chuckled and nodded, standing up.

"Yeah you will lad." he said, walking away. "I'll find you something."

Once he left Jon wrapped the rough blanket tighter around it, feeling nothing but cold.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glance in the East and South

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note of where everyone is:  
> Jon, Davos, Melisandre, Tormund, Edd and Ghost are at Castle Black  
> Arya is in Bravos  
> Dany is being taken to Khal Moro  
> Jorah and Daario are looking for Dany  
> Tyrion, Missandei, Grey Worm and Varys temporarily rule Meereen  
> Sansa and Theon are at Winterfell with Ramsay and Myranda. Roose still lives.  
> Cersei, Jaime, Kevan, Tommen, Margaery, Olenna and Mace are at Kings Landing. High Sparrow is there too.  
> Btw the Dorne plotline didn't happen so Myrcella is alive in Dorne.

_Daenerys_

The sand was coarse and rough, her feet cut on jagged stones and torn by shrubs. She did not cry out. She was Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen and she had suffered worse than warm, rough ground.

The Dothraki spread for miles around her, like a swarm of locust upon the burning landing. The men rode, driving slaves on with the blunt ends of spears and the coiled leather of whips. There were women but none were Dothraki. Some were from the Free Cities, captured by Dothraki as they travelled East with their merchant husbands who were too poor to travel by sea but rich enough for four scores of men who were now dead like the merchants who hired or more than likely bought them. However most of the women were Lhazareen, a popular place for the Dothraki to rape, burn, plunder and enslave.

The Dothraki stopped few and far in between, not willing to push their too hard beneath the scorching sun. But when they did they mounted their new slaves and laughed whilst the women wept, begged and sobbed.

Luckily for Daenerys, she was saved just for Khal Moro. Oh what an honour.

She hated the helplessness she now felt. Just days ago she had been riding a dragon, delivering justice, liberating children from the shackles of slavery.

Now she sleep on the hard, freezing ground as the wails of raped women surrounded her.

She stumbled, her lack of sleep, food, water and rest briefly catching up to her for a brief moment. But it a moment was a moment and one of her Dothraki captors coiled his whip and struck her with it. She let out grunt of pain, her back straightening as pain shot up it. Her dress and skin had not been torn bit she knew there would be another welt for her to sleep on by the time the Dothraki decided to rest once more.

Daenerys cast a furious glare at the Dothraki who struck her, prompting chuckles and small laughs from the rider and the fellow rider who rode next to him. She looked away, her irritation growing. Her only protection from rape was the claim Khal Moro had on her and she knew she would do something stupid if she saw the superior, lustful gazes once more.

"Maybe she saw a ghost?" The Dothraki who whipped her wondered. "My friend's mother saw a ghost and her hair turned white."

"Pink people are afraid of the sun." The other said dismissively.

She glanced at him with annoyed glance, refraining from rolling her eyes and raising her brow.

"It burns their skin." The rider continued.

The two Dothraki continued to speak, wondering if her hair in more private areas were white too. Then the one who whipped her smacked his lips and she turned to him.

She glared at him whilst he declared "I'll ask Khal Moro for a night with you."

She felt burning rage flare within her and the dragon inside roared for fury and demanded fire and blood.

"What do you think?" The rider asked and she continued to glare, barely controlling the dragon from trying to grab the riders arakh, which rested on the flank of his horse.

"Pretty eyes, but she's an idiot." The other commented and Daenerys cast her gaze onto him, reigning in the dragon only for it to be roar with greater fury as the rider who whipped her dismissively replied "She doesn't have to be smart to get fucked in the ass."

She looked away, rage fading to irritation, knowing the two Dothraki Screamers would never touch her.

That's when she noticed it.

The dust was kicked high into the air by the converging raiding parties. Merging as one once more to become a Khalasar that might've possibly rivalled Drogo's

_Tommen_

King Tommen of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

It was never meant to be him. There wasn't supposed to be a King Tommen. Only King Joffrey.

Tommen loves Joffrey because he is his older brother. He also hates him.

Hates him for bullying and belittling him. Hates him for the pain and torture he inflicted on others and the Seven Kingdoms.

Tommen wants to be a good king. He truly does. It just seems so hopeless to try sometimes.

He loved his wife. Marge was smart, kind and beautiful. Yet she was meant for Joffrey.

He loved his mother. Mother was clever, loving and protective. Yet she doted on Joffrey, leaving him with sweets and cats.

He loved his grandfather. Grandfather was strong, powerful and cunning. Yet he was ruthless and cold. At least he didn't dote on Joffrey. Now grandfather was dead too.

How could Tommen be a good king when he had not only step out of his brothers tyrannical shadow, but fix a realm torn asunder at the same time?

King Tommen of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms sat by a open window in his chambers, the cool breeze sweeping in from Blackwater Bay, refreshing his mind and body.

He looked out over the city he now ruled, his gaze eventually resting upon the Great Sept of Baelor. He frowned, practically feeling the gaze of one his major obstacles staring right back at him. The High Sparrow.

He had originally admired the old man's ideas about serving the people. But time had swiftly made him an enemy. His Faith Militant roamed the streets, attacking brothels and whorehouses, damaging the treasury, as most of the Crown's wealth came from investments in the brothels and whorehouses. Tommen did not like it at first but his mother and managed to convince him of the necessity of such properties. The Crown was afterall recovering from a brutal civil war and the debt Tommen's father owed to the Iron Bank.

Then nobles were being rounded up and put on trials, without the authorisation of the Crown.

_The God's do not answer to the Iron Throne._

A simple yet powerful message. One that had conflicted Tommen deeply.

His mother was furious the some "old, rag wearing peasant" believed he was above the authority of the Crown and wanted to immediately arrest the High Sparrow and his "cronies".

Marge had wanted to negotiate with the High Sparrow in order to see to the release of the imprisoned nobles, cleverly pointing out that the Faith was important to the smallfolk and the arrest of the messenger of the Seven could possibly inspire rebellion.

Negotiations started two sennights ago to no fruition. The attacks on brothels continued and the influence of the Crown, as shaky as it already was, dwindled.

He had to act.

"Husband." a seductive voice purred from behind him. Tommen smiled and rose from his seat his low spirits raised at the sight of his stunning wife.

Her doe eyes were glinting with mischievousness and her heart shaped face was tilted slightly, brown locks tumbling off her shoulders and surrounding her face.

"Marge." He replied, trying to make his voice deeper and more seductive. From the small smile on her face he could tell he had failed. Terribly.

"Oh my!" she exclaimed lightly, face turning into mock shock and holding a hand to her mouth as her eyelashes fluttered. "Where has my dear husband disappeared to?"

He smiled, knowing she was jesting with him. He pushed down and silenced the large part of him that screamed she was mocking him.

"I was only trying to be more grown up Marge." Tommen said, sighing slightly. "For you."

His wife's face softened and she approached him in swift, long legged strides.

"You are perfect as you are already my husband." she said sincerely, grabbing his face still chubby with baby fat, and pulled his mouth to hers.

"She tastes of sweet, like lemon cakes." he thought wondrously and not for the first time. Lemon cakes had been his favourite when he was younger, before he was King.

The King and Queen kissed and fumbled towards the plump bed, trying their earnest to make an heir for many hours afterwards.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back again in the North. 
> 
> WARNING  
> There is extremely dark bits because of Ramsay so you might not wish to read of you are uncomfortable with things such as rape, domestic abuse and torture.  
> Also sexual content.

_Sansa_

She was in Robb's old chambers. Ramsay had taken it for himself. After all the "chambers of the old heir should belong to the new one".

She hoped Robb couldn't see what Ramsay did to her on the bed he used to sleep on. 

Sansa was sat at the foot of Robb's old bed and waited. It was all she could do.

She did not sleep, for her dreams were dark and murky. Ramsay liked to wake her up in different ways too. 

Sometimes she woke up to find him casually cutting her skin with his knife. 

Sometimes she woke up by being dragged out of the bed by her hair. 

Sometimes she woke up to find him on top of her, his cock buried inside her and she tried not to weep until her spilled his seed and left.

He often liked to eat his food in front of her, forcing her to 'earn' her own by doing whatever task herself her. 

Mostly it was to say things that pleased him, things that stroked his ego and pride and put him in a good mood. Sometimes it was to beg him for it and sometimes he told her to get on her knees and pleasure him with her mouth.

More often than not he didn't give her the food. He did when she began to look skinny and malnourished however.

"I can't have my pretty wife looking like a commoner now can I?" He said before feeding her things she had never eaten before. He fed her dog meat, rat meat, frogs that made her sick and mushrooms that made her dizzy. Once he gave her a kitten and had forced to eat it alive. 

Whenever Ramsay was in a good mood he fed her large portions of food that managed to keep her going. More often than not these 'delicacies' were small chunks of Theon, or rather what was once Theon and is now Reek.

Sometimes he cut little chunks out of _her_ and made her eat herself.

Sansa Stark was broken and tired of living, not even trying to beg for mercy or weep as Ramsay raped her in her dead older brother's bed that night.

_Jon_

It was two days after his resurrection. Tormund and the Free Folk had secured Castle Black, detaining Aliser Thorne and the traitors who had betrayed him in the Ice Cells. 

Jon had only seen Davos, Edd and the Red Woman so far and yet now he was expected to see the faces of men who might've known about the plot to kill him, might've helped plan it. Then there was the snow.

_It always fucking snows._

He did not fear snow. He fought battle after battle. He had fought Free Folk, Men of the Nights Watch and living dead men. For the sake of all the bloody gods he had killed a White Walker!

Yet he could not step outside his chambers for fear of the little snowflakes that drifted from the sky and formed small mounds. Mounds like the one he had died on. 

He shivered, suddenly feeling cold, and tugged his tattered cloak tighter around him.

Ghost was hunting, hurt and saddened by Jon's distance and coldness. Jon couldn't help it. Ghost's fur was the same colour as snow. Before it had been a blessing, allowing his wolf to camouflage into the wilderness of the Lands-Beyond-the-Wall. Now it was a constant curse and reminder of the last thing Jon saw before his death.

Hs had only tried to do what was good. To follow the teachings of his father and act with honour and do what was right.

Jon had received a knife in the heart for it.

_Olly_

The boy was the closest thing Jon had had to his own son, his vows of chastity meaning he would never beget his own child. 

And the boy, younger than Bran, had stabbed him in the heart, his voice cold and iron as he declared it was "For the Watch." 

Jon sighed heavily and turned to sit by the hearth, a small fire alight, just enough to warm his dead-not-dead bones. 

The door to his solar opened and none other than Lady Melisandre entered. 

"My Lady." Jon said in greeting as she closed the door to the bellowing wind and gushing snow.

"My Prince." She replied, bowing her head, fire dancing in her crystal eyes. 

After she had managed to bring Jon back she had promptly declared him the true Prince that was Promised. After all the other Prince she chose lay dead outside the frozen fields of Winterfell, his army shattered and slain. 

Jon tolerated her new title for him. He did owe her his life after all.

"What brings you to the chambers of a dead men ,My Lady?" He asked, watching as she slowly approached the weak, pitiful fire alight in his hearth.

"To speak to my Prince." She replied, voice clear and and her heart shaped face turning to face him.

"About what matters, My Lady?" Jon asked, not sure if he was in the mood for one of Melisandre's religious preaches. 

"The fire is like you Jon Snow." She said softly. "Weak and barely alight."

He did not know what to say, he was angry about what she suggested but at the same time knew she was right. By all that was right and good and logical he should be dead now, maybe his lack of resolve and will was merely an after effect.

"You have a fire within you Jon Snow, one the burned brighter than Stannis." She continued. "I decided to stay with Stannis however as I did not want years of work to be in vain." 

He stayed silent, listening and contemplating.

"Let me reignite the flame inside you." She said, though her voice was seductive, lustful and sounding almost like a beg. "Let me serve my Prince."

Jon's first thought was to say no. He was a man of the Nights Watch. It would be dishonourable and wrong. He would politely turn her down and simply continue to brood by the weak fireplace, drink some ale later and eat some stew. Maybe even speak to Edd or Davos if they chose to.

But suddenly something cold, dark and feral surged inside him. It roared with anger at his stupidity. He had fulfilled his vows with his death and the honour he held so dear to him had killed him. Why should he be alone when a beautiful woman was practically begging to serve him?

His inner conflict tore him apart and for a moment it seemed like the darkness would overwhelm him. But his honour prevailed. For now.

"I'm warm enough as it is, My Lady." He replied, to which she nodded simply and left seemingly only coming to see him to seduce him. Jon hoped it would not become a common theme.

As he sat by the fire he stewed on the feral, darkness that had swelled within him. Had thay been a consequence of his resurrection or had it always been there?

He resolved to fight it. To stay good and honourable and follow the teachings of Ned Stark.

Yet a part of him was already listening to some of the things the darkness whispered and as he say by the small fire his mind became balanced.

Melisandre smiled as she walked through the howling winds and whirling snow.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still in the North

_Theon_

He was broken.

_Reek is fixed._

Every night brought fresh pain.

_Every night brought pleasure._

He couldn't bear it anymore.

_Reek loved it._

He was forced into Robb's room every night.

_Pathetic, stupid Stark._

The room where he played games with Robb and told him bawdy and lewd tales.

_The room where the traitor Theon played with the traitor Stark._

It made him feel like an older brother to him.

_Theon doesn't have a family. They all abandoned him._

Now every night he is forced to watch Sansa get raped in the same bed he used to sit in as he recounted his pleasures with the opposite sex.

_So what? A Stark whore gets fucked on a Stark traitor's bed._

It destroyed him everytime.

_It gave Reek so much satisfaction to see the Stark whore used like a whore. As she should be._

It happened slowly.

_Nothing changed. He was Reek. It rhythms with freak._

He felt it change. Morph.

_Everything stayed the same. Normal. Good._

The whispers died away, fading like summer into autumn. 

_Reek was strong and loud._

The darkness remained, but it was weaker and tempered by something else. Something powerful.

_Reek was whole! Reek was strong! Reek obeys Master!_

Rage. Fury. Anger.

_Pain! Submission! Obedience!_

Reek slowly faded. Theon slowly returned.

_Jon_

It was snowing. Why would it not? He was at the Wall at what some considered the end of the world. Of course it would snow.

He hated it.

Not when it danced from the sky in small, tiny flakes. But when it landed. Grew. Covered the land and made mounds that look like cairns.

It taunted him. Teased him. Much worse than anything Theon Greyjoy had done to him in Winterfell.

Winterfell.

What had happened to his home? Taken over by the Bolton's. The longtime enemies of House Stark. His home raided and burned by Ironborn led by none other than Theon Greyjoy. Jon hoped he was alive. Just so he could kill him himself. 

What had happened to his family? His father beheaded in the south. His brother killed and betrayed in the south. His sister disappeared in the south. His other sister was held captive and more than likely tortured in the south before disappearing. His crippled brother was somewhere across the wall and his littlest one had disappeared into the vast wilderness of the North.

_The lone wolf dies but the pack survives._

Where was his pack? His family? Scattered. Ripped apart and torn asunder by the games and schemes of others. 

As Jon watched the snow fall, he swore to avenge House Stark.

Lannister. Frey. Bolton. Greyjoy.

They would all fear the bastard wolf.

But he had other matters to deal with first.

He walked warily through the parting crowd, eyeing the shocked, awed and fearful faces cautiously. He would not betrayed a second time within less than a week.

He saw a tall man approach, his hair as bushy as his beard, his blue eyes shocked, happy and above all Tormund.

The de facto leader of the Free Folk approached him slowly, almost warily. As if he was a wild, savage, feral animal.

"The think your some kind of God." He said, voice a rough whisper as he stopped just in front of him.

"I'm not a god." Jon replied quickly, worried he would now have to deal with zealous Free Folk and not just the Red Woman.

"I know." Tormund said softly. "I saw your pecker. What sort of god would have a pecker that small?"

Jon scoffed and smiled as Tormund pulled him into a bear hug. Jon briefly wondered if Tormund aimed to suffocate him but as his bones began to creak and lungs began to scream he was released. 

Jon sighed heavily and asked "Where are they?"

Tormund knew. He saw it in King Crow's eyes. He wanted to see his killers. And they wouldn't be alive after the visit.

"This way God Tiny Pecker." Tormund said and Jon chuckled as did some of the nearest Free Folk who had heard the conversation.

They walked through the crowd of Free Folk and brothers of the Night's Watch. All of them stared. Jon found himself uncomfortable yet at the same time uncaring. Let them look and gawk. They know who he was. Soon so would the rest of Westeros. 

He was led to the Ice Cells and inside were his killers. Freezing, teeth chattering and shivering against the relentless cold. It gave Jon great satisfaction to see Aliser Thorne shiver relentlessly. 

They all gasped and gaped at him. A little noise of fear escaped Bowen March. The others just stared. Fear. Shock. Hatred.

It was pure. Liquid black and hotter than molten lava. Their hate was as strong as Valyrian Steel.

"Thorne." Jon said, his voice so emotionless and cold it frightened even him. "March. Yarwyck." He pauses and turn his cold eyes over to the boy huddled in the corner. 

"Olly."

It was not a pained gasp. A last word. A helpless cry of betrayal and pain.

It was colder than the ice used to build the wall. As strong as Longclaw. As commanding as Wun Wun's prescence. 

It was a death sentence. 

"Why?" He asked and for a second relief flooded the frozen insides of the captives. It sounded like the Lord Commander. The one they killed and betrayed. Not the cold, stonelike thing wearing his face and body.

"Bbbbecause your a trrraitor!" Olly growled, teeth chattering and voice filled with hate. It would've hurt the Lord Commander. But the Lord Commander was dead.

Jon closed his eyes and turned to Tormund. 

"Give me the key and go." He ordered, tone strong and iron and clear. 

A bushy eyebrow raised in response but Tormund complied with the command. He couldn't judge a man for wanting to kill his killers.

Jon unlocked the door and opened it, closing and locking it behind it. Despite there bring four of them (three of Jon's other killers had died when the Wildlings seized Castle Black) they frot uneasy. As if they were the chickens trapped in the chicken pen and Jon the wolf who stalks towards them.

"Don't worry Ser Aliser." Jon said, voice deceptively soft. "I have special plans for you. For now just watch and know your death is going to be much worse."

He stalked towards Bowen Marsh. The most craven of the lot. He was trembling and his pants wet.

"Your too honourable to kill a man in chains." He said defiantly, trembling but holding his head high with what remained of his pride and righteousness.

Jon didn't even stop his slow advance.

"And you were dishonourable enough to betray your unarmed Lord Commander." Jon replied, voice hard cold and as harsh as the winds.

Marsh begged. He sobbed. Told Jon to tell his family he died honourably fighting Wildings. Then Jon's right fist connected with his jaw. Then his nose. Then his mouth. The his jaw. Then his mouth and his nose again. Satisfaction flowed through him with the cracking bones. The wolf inside him howled, eager for more blood. His eyes were completely dark and glinted cruelly as Bowen Marsh started twitching, stopped crying, weeping, breathing. When Jon pulled back and stopped there was nothing but red with little specks of pink here and there. His right hand was mangled and bloodied and torn but he did not care. 

Othell Yarwyck was next. He was stunned into silence but cried out with pain when Jon kneed him in his balls, knocking the air out of him. Jon then kneed his stomach thrice, winding him further. When Jon let go he fell and then Jon started stamping on his face. It did not take long for his boot to become black with blood. He turned to Olly. His eyes cold and harsh where the once held warmth and an almost fatherly affection.

"I've got plans for you Olly." He said softly and he strode over to the trembling boy. Something inside him felt pity and mercy. The boy's eyes reminded him of Bran and Rickon soemtimes. Not know when they were filled with fear and hate.

It was quick painless. Jon snapped his neck quickly and with brute strength. The body fell to the floor and Jon left, locking Aliser Thorne in the cold room with blood and brains and the body of a young boy inside.

The Free Folk and brothers of the Night's Waych had followed Tormund and Jon. When they saw Tormund waiting outside they knew not to enter and so they waited, still shocked and awed that King Crow had come back from the dead.

The heard it. The screams. The cracking of bones. The quick pleas for mercy before the sound of weeping and then nothing.

When Jon Snow stood before them, slatheredin blood with eyes as cold as an Other, they felt fear. All of them. They wondered if King Crow was still himself, or of he had become a monster worse than the ones he saved them from. 

The Wun Wun knelt. One of the last giants to ever grace the world knelt to the man who had come back from the dead, saved them all and was covered in the blood of his enemies.

The Free Folk were stunned. The giants had never knelt. Not to a human before. Yet he was Wun Wun, kneeling to a man he could easily crush in his right hand. Then a Crow knelt. Then another. And another until nearly all the Crows were on their knees. 

Then a Free Folk knelt. He knelt. Knelt to King Crow. The Free Folk were stunned, shocked and disgusted. 

King Crow walked towards the Thenn. His eyes were hard and despite the fact they did not kneel they knew that they would follow him. Follow his strength. His safety. His fire.

He helped the man to stand.

"The Free Folk do not kneel." He said, sounding fatherly and they knew that they were King Crow's men.

Wun Wun stood. The Crows that knelt stood. 

Melisandre smiled. Hands dancing above the flames as she chanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to Val from the books Tormund's host has 200 Giants and 80 mammoths. Because I like both giants and mammoths I'm gonna save some of them.
> 
> Melisandre used magic to influence Wun Wun and the singular Free Folk, hoping it would inspire the others to follow. Clearly didnt work but no one knows and they will follow Jon. 
> 
> Dont worry he'll still have to convince many to fight for him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glimpses of the East and South

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is not canon compliant for neither books nor show so don't get made when changes happen

_Dany_

Khal Moro was smaller the her sun and stars. That was the first thing she noticed. His braid was not as large as Drogo's but her sun and stars had been the mightiest of the Dothraki. Dany knew Moro was a weak man who would burn for trying to touch the dragon.

He stalked around her lustfully, his brown eyes glinting and length already hardening in his leathers. Suffice to say she was not impressed by him. 

"I'm glad I am not blind." he said. "Seeing a beautiful woman naked for the first time, what is better than that?"

The question was clearly rhetorical, yet Moro's bloodriders piped up, saying that killing another Khal, breaking a wild horse, conquering another city and enslaving it's inhabitants, taking it's idols back to Vaes Dothrak, were arguably greater feelings.

Dany could barely supress her irritation. The Mother of Dragons. The Breaker of Chains. Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. And she had been captured by imbeciles.

"Seeing a beautiful woman naked for the first time is among the five best things in life." Moro said in annoyance, and his bloodriders bowed their heads, cowed and shamed.

Moro then grabbed at the front of her dress and Dany had had enough.

"Do not touch me." she snarled, a command, an order, her irritation, anger and fury showing. The dragon roared as it was released, albeit briefly.

The fools whom had whipped her stared at one another and stepped forward, eyes wide with shock. Moro's Khaleesi's glanced at one another and Moro looked at her incredously, stepping back.

"I am Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals, Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons." She said, glaring at Moro who met her fiery gaze.

His tent was silent and tense and she waited, not scared or nervous. But tall, defiant and strong.

Then Moro laughed, joined in by his bloodriders and the men who brought her to him. The Khaleesi's were not.

"You are nobody." he said, his hand grabbing her right cheek and pulling her closer to him but she held her head high up, repulsed and strong. "Millionth of your name, Queen of nothing, slave of Khal Moro."

"Tonight you will lie with me." he said commandingly and before he could continued she met his cold gaze and smirked ever so slightly.

"I am the wife of Khal Drogo, son of Bharbo." she said, the dragon roaring as shock fell on Moro's face and his hand fell away from hers. He looked as if she had struck him, destroyed his Khalasar then struck him again.

"Khal Drogo is dead." he said, fear evident on his face, as if her expected her sun and stars to appear with a Khalasar in mere moments and tear him apart limb by limb.

"I know." she replied coldly, though her heart panged at the memory. "I burnt his body."

"Forgive me." he said, shock and fear fading. "I did not know."

He cut her bonds and she grunted at the feeling of blood returning to her hands.

"No one will lie with you." he said. "You have my word."

She felt it. The connection opened and she smiled. Her son had grown.

"Escort me back to Meereen and I will give you one thousand horses as a sign of my gratitude." she said hopefully, emboldened by her son.

"When a Khal dies," he said walking to sit on his small throne. "there is only one place for his Khaleesi."

Vaes Dothrak. The Dosh Khaleen. It is known.

Her connection with her son was cut and she knew she was alone. She sighed in defeat.

_Tommen_

They had his wife. 

For the first time Tommen knew the rage of a Lannister. The fury of a Baratheon.

He was not strong nor a great warrior like his Uncle Jaime or his father. He was not smart like his mother. He was just ordinary.

But he was King Tommen of the House Baratheon and the High Sparrow had his wife. His goodfather and Master of Coin had two thousand men at the Red Keep. Tommen had several hundred Lannister household guard and a further eight hundred from the Westerlands and Crownlands lords currently at the Red Keep. 

He donned his glided golden armour, a Lion and Stag upon the breastplate. It was heavy and uncomfortable. But he ignored the pain and watched as his servant buckled his sword onto his hip. He hoped he would not have to use it. He would not be known as Tommen the Sparrowslayer. He would be Tommen the Good.

But they had his wife.

Tommen sucked in a shaky breath and stumbled through the Red Keep, slowly gaining his balance and getting comfortable in his armour. His uncle flanked him, knowing he could not stop this madness, but would protect Tommen at all costs. 

Three thousand and five hundred marched from the Red Keep, their golden armoured King leading them with the portly Mace Tyrell riding on his right and uncle Jaime Lannister on his left. Red, gold, green, silver and countless other colours marched, attracting quite the crowd. 

They stopped before the Great Sept of Baelor and Tommen found his strength in his anger at the High Sparrow and himself for standing idly by as his wife and Queen was dragged away. He donned the mask his mother taught him to wear.

His green eyes were cold. His face expressionless. His golden hair waved with the breeze beneath his golden crown. 

The High Sparrow met it and a tense silence ensued.

"I want my wife back." Tommen said, his voice, for the first time in his life, strong, clear and commanding.

It took the High Sparrow back. Where was the demure boy king whom he could bully and push? 

Good. Let them underestimate him. 

"I want my daughter back." Mace Tyrell add, though the fool stuttered and made himself look like a idiot in front of his men.

"She has confessed to her sin and will make a walk of Atonement to atone for her sins." The High Sparrow said, unnerved by the sea of soldiers that blocked the view of the smallfolk and pushed them back. The poor and commoners were his strength, their support crucial to his unchecked power.

Tommen knew this. mother had told him. Push the people back and they cannot help him.

He dismounted and managed not to stumble or falter. His fury and anger, supressed for so long, was now free and it balanced him, fuelled him and made him strong. 

He walked up the steps the High Sparrow. Cold green met impassive brown. 

"I want my wife back." Tommen said coldly. Their wills clashed. The High Sparrow looked and saw nothing but the cold masks of soldiers. He had no support. No authority here. At least at the moment.

He nodded and Tommen's eyes flashed with victory.

"Now." he said and the High Sparrow led him inside the Great Sept.

He emerged an hour later with his queen at his side. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back North once more

_Sansa_

She knew he was planning something. He had not seen her all day. Today all had been quiet. Her door had not been kicked open. She had not been punched, kicked or cut by Ramsay's sharp knife. Nor had Myranda came by to beat her, belittle her, threaten to feed her to the hounds.

It had been too quiet. Too peaceful. 

Something was about to happen.

So she waited. Steeling herself. Defiance had began to flare within her once more, though she could not yet determine why. She hoped it went away quickly. Thing were so much easier when she just gave in to the pain.

Ramsay liked it when she resisted. Fought back. Allowed the snarling wolf that was buried within her to growl and snap at the Bolton bastard.

She suffered even more when liked it. Even worse if he disliked it. She could never win. How could one win when pitted against a madman?

The past few weeks had been harsh. Harsher than usual.

When he had tried mounting her she had fought him, catching him unawares. She managed to knee him in the balls and almost made it to the door.

Then Myranda came in.

That night Ramsay had left her in his lover's clutches till nearly midnight. Her body was pained and tired when he came back. Myranda was not a smart type of cruel like Ramsay, she was more emotional and Sansa used this to keep Myranda calm. Well as calm as she could. Myranda was a madwoman. The pain was less than it usually was with Myranda, but still painful and tiring.

Then Ramsay returned. He had a sword and for a moment Sansa hoped he would kill her and she would finally escape the hell that had once been her home. Then he monologued. Told her the history of the blade. 

She knew something bad was going to happen. It did.

The sword was Robb's. It had been the blade he wielded when he fought the Kingslayer and won. It had been the blade he had wielded when he had set the Westerlands aflame.

"It would be ironic wouldn't it?" Ramsay had asked rhetorically. "If the same blade that your dead brother used to slay his enemies, would impale mine?"

Myranda had grinned and grabbed her arms down. Theon had spread and held onto her legs. Ramsay had pushed the hilt of Robb's sword up her womanhood.

It had been excruciating. It had been the worst thing she had felt. She was ripped open and bled.

"Does this count as incest?" Ramsay had asked once she closed her eyes desperately. "I mean your brother did hold this and now it's inside you."

"You hear that wolf bitch?" Myranda had leered into her ear. "Your no better than Cersei Brotherfucker and Jaime Sisterslayer."

Sansa had bled for what seemed like all week after that.

Her body had been ravaged and raped. Her mind shattered and torn asunder. It could not get any worse.

It was dark and cold when Ramsay finally came. His pale blue eyes were happy and joyous and Sansa knew tonight was going to be painful.

"Wife!" Ramsay exclaimed happily, grinning as if he was excited to see her. He approached her and gently placed his hands on her cheeks, pulling her head lower and kissing the top of it.

"I have wonderful news!" he said happily, maniacal grin plastered on his face. He sat down on what was once Robb's bed and she turned to face him.

"What news pleases you my lord husband." Sansa replied demurely, and he cocked his head.

"A raven from Castle Black." he said, his grin growing, almost as if he saw the hope growing inside her.

"What news did it bring?" she asked quietly, trying to stem the tidal wave of hope growing within her. Was Jon marching on Winterfell to save her?

Why was he smiling? 

If Jon was marching south then Ramsay would both relish and fear the challenge. As the last surviving son of Ned Stark, many Northern Lords might swear alliegence to him. No something bad had happened.

"I'm so sorry." Ramsay said, mock sympathy in his voice. "It seems as though your half brother was betrayed and killed by a group of mutineers."

Sansa felt the hope die within her. She was the last Stark. Bran and Rickon and Arya lost and probably dead in the wilderness. Robb, mother and father killed in the south. And now Jon was gone too.

She sobbed and let herself cry, uncaring that Ramsay had a growing smile of pleasure on his face at her misery. 

"I know, I know." he said. "Such a waste of paper telling him I was raping you in his dead brother's bed every night."

Sansa felt the wolf snap and snarl. She had nothing. No family. No hope. Nothing.

She flew at Ramsay but he had expected this and sent her tumbling to the floor after his fist connected with her jaw. Her head thudded against the cold stone and she felt blood and dizzy. 

Ramsay hoisted her up and bent her over the bed, ripping and tearing at her ragged skirt.

"Let's celebrate his death by making me and heir." he said, entering her harshly and thrusting like the madman he was.

Sansa sobbed into the furs and prayed for the only thing she had left. Death.

_Jon_

He stared at the letter, opened and on his desk. He read it thrice over and for a moment sat still in his chair, as still as a statue.

Then he flipped the desk over. Threw the chair at the wall and smashed it to pieces.

All he saw was red. His blood demanded blood. Bolton blood.

Ramsay Bolton had killed his father and taken over lordship of the North. And he was torturing, beating and raping his sister.

Sansa. Sweet Sansa.

She had been distant, listening to Lady Catelyn's warning about Jon's debased bastard nature more seriously than the rest of his Stark siblings. But she had been a sweet young girl with dreams of gallant knights and beautiful ladies. 

And she was being raped in Robb's bed.

Jon had had plans to make.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last of Jon's betrayers is dealt with and Jon begins to gather and army.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm taking elements from both show and book. In the books 7,000 Wildlings are south of the Wall and 200 giants+80 Mammoths were sent to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Naturally 200 giants would slaughter the Bolton armies so I'm going to lower their numbers a bit but they will not whittled down to just Wun Wun.

_Jon_

It was time.

The Free Folk stood in a circle around the small dais, brothers of the Night's Watch mingling in between them. Around two thousand Free Folk were at Castle Black, men, women and children. There were less than one hundred men of the Night's Watch, even less had chosen to follow Jon south.

But first he had to deal with the last of his betrayers.

Tormund had approved. The Free Folk followed strength, and the ritual was one of sacrifice to the Old God's.

Melisandre did not approve. She wished to burn him as an offering to R'hollor. But she obeyed his will, listening to the one whom she called the true Prince that was Promised.

Davos didn't like it. He thought it too brutal and cruel. Too different from what the old Jon Snow would do. His face was pale and grim as he watched, but he was there and that meant something at the least.

Jon was dressed in in a new leather armour, a brigandine with small armour plates sewn together by boiled leather. Some of the veteran rangers of the Watch who had come from Winterfell said he looked like his father. 

Jon did not know what to do with the praise and so accepted it in silence.

The courtyard was quiet. The crackling of torches and light blowing of the wind the only sound to be heard. Then came the sound of rattling chains.

Aliser Thorne looked haggard, his eyes tired yet defiant, knowing his end was coming and knowing it was not to be a quick death.

Two burly Free Folk dragged Thorne towards Jon and he met Thorne's gaze, his eyes still cruel and filled with contempt.

"Do you have any last words?" Jon rasped and could see Thorne's mind spin and whir as he thought of something that would bite.

"I fought. I lost. Now I rest. But you, Lord Snow, you'll be fighting their battles forever." he said calmly, hatred burning in his black eyes. His calm composure and words unnerved Jon ever so slightly. He wondered if he had been this composed when Thorne and the others had betrayed him in the dark.

The snow fell in drifts. It no longer bothered Jon the way it did, but he still felt a gnawing in his gut and mind whenever he saw it, flashes of cold, glinting knives and red, bloodstained snow.

The two Free Folk tied Thorne's arms to two wooden posts that had been erected the night before, chaining his wrists in iron shackles. Thorne was shirtless, shivering slightly in the wind.

Jon knew what he needed to do and he would do it.

He beckoned to Dryn, Tormund's thirdborn son and his page, to bring him the dagger that had been heating up in a small brazier. Jon took the blade wary and determined. He found no pleasure at the prospect of what he was about to do. He felt nothing as he sank the scolding blade into Aliser Thorne's back, causing him to scream with sheer agony. Jon grimaced and flinched, but still he continued, dragging the blade down Thorne's back, leaving a red line that sizzled. He stabbed the blade onto one of the wooden posts and beckoned for the two Free Folk who had brought Thorne to his execution to hold him down. The next few steps required precision. He grabbed underneath the flesh of Thorne's back, pulling it apart and exposing his spine and the back of his ribs. He screamed and wailed. Jon did not stop. His face became a cold mask and he took a small hatchet from Dryn, who looked sickened yet strong at what he was witnessing.

Jon raised the small axe, aimed carefully and swung it downwards. There was a wet thunk a wail from Thorne. Blood and bone spurted upwards into Jon's face. He did this again and again until twenty-four ribs had been cracked and cut. Then he pulled them out against Thorne's skin and the blood dried and held them together. The Blood Eagle was complete.

The crowd murmured prayers to the Old Gods, Melisandre to R'hollor and Davos and the brothers of the Night's Watch to the Seven. They dispersed, but not before Thorne's body was raised between two large wooden posts, his eyes blank and ribs and skin forming wings. 

The crowd dispersed and a fitful night's rest fell upon Castle Black.

* * *

Dawn brought no respite nor calm. Val, the leader of at least five thousand Free Folk whom had settled the Gift, arrived early at dawn, looking at Thorne's blood eagled corpse with respect, fear and shock in her pale grey eyes.

"King Crow." She said softly, cheeks red and ruddy from her early ride through the cold morning, honey coloured hair loose and tumbling down to her waist.

"Lady Val." Jon replied, his eyes searching hers, wondering whether she thought him as cruel and evil as Ramsay Bolton. 

"You died." she said, more of a statement than a question.

"I did." He replied quietly. "The Red Woman brought me back."

Val nodded, eyes fixed intently on his.

"I'm not one of them." He rasped and her eyes became pitiful where they were once hard.

"Good." She replied. "It would've been a shame to kill you."

Jon did not know what to say to that so he nodded and led her to his chambers where Tormund awaited.

"Was it just him?" Val asked, nodding her head to the swaying corpse of Aliser Thorne, blowing with the wind from the ropes attached to the wooden posts he hung from.

"No." Jon replied curtly, not wanting to remember what he had done to the Marsh, Yarwyck or Olly in the Ice Cells. 

Val did not say anything else, seeing he did not wish to elaborate further. She knew him well enough to know he preferred silent company rather than pointless small talk.

They arrived at his chambers in a somewhat stony silence. She greeted Tormund with a smile and nodded her head gracefully at Davos on Edd, both of whom stood at Jon's sides, whilst Tormund leaned on the wall nearby.

"Rumour has it you intend to march on the big southern castle of yours." Val said, pondering for a moment before adding. "Winterfell."

Jon nodded solemnly in response. He fixed his grey eyes on her pale grey, beginning the duel of wills that would end in either his defeat or victory.

"Aye." He said. "And you know why."

"He has your sister." Val said softly, knowing he shared a similar pain she had once felt. She had had a sister not so long ago.

Jon nodded and he allowed his face to soften when he saw her pale grey eyes morphed into pity and sympathy. 

"I need your help." He rasped, swallowing a lump that had formed in his throat. "I need the help of the Free Folk."

"We did not come south to fight your wars King Crow." she said softly, as if she was a mother scolding her son.

"You didn't." Jon agreed, nodding his head. "It's why I'm asking, not demanding."

Silence followed. Jon need Val's fighters. Tormund had already agreed to help Jon, giving him about one thousand two hundred Free Folk and four giants. He needed more if he was to win against the Bolton's.

"You already swore to help King Crow?" Val asked, turning to Tormund.

"I did." Tormund said, arms crossed and his blue eyes harder than the ice that made the Wall.

"Why?" Val asked, curiosity in her voice, small hints at disapproval their too.

"He died for us, bled for us." Tormund said simply. "What would it say about us if we won't do the same for him?"

Val contemplated his words and turned to Jon. A tense silence reigned.

"I won't force anyone to fight." She said and Jon nodded.

"I'm asking for volunteers." Jon replied and after another brief silence Val nodded.

Jon smiled. It was large and infectious and full. He felt like he could kiss Val but the thought of having his tongue cut out immediately after sobered those thoughts.

"Thank you." He rasped shakily and Val smiled back at him.

"Never knew you could smile King Crow." She said, her face one of mock shock.

"I could stop if it pleases My Lady." Jon replied, still smiling.

"Don't!" Val said quickly, reddening slightly with embarrassment at how quickly she had said it. She stood up and turned to leave.

"It makes you look prettier." she said, before leaving the room. Tormund followed, chuckling at Jon's conflicted expression.

Jon was soaring with happiness as he wrote a letter, one which was sent to every single Lord and Lady of the North.

_To the Lords and Ladies of the North,_

_My watch has ended. My oath to the Night's Watch has been fulfilled and I intend to finally take action against my father's and brother's murderers._

_I will march on Winterfell and crush the Bolton's. I will rescue my sister from Ramsay Snow and burn the Dreadfort to the ground._

_Join me at Castle Black if you wish to see a Stark once more rule the North. I will march in six moonturns._

_Know this. Winter is coming for House Bolton._

_Jon Snow_


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The War for the North begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few chapters will be focused on the North but we will go back east and south to see what other players of the great game are doing eventually.

_Jon_

And so it begins.

Four thousand Free Folk men and spear wives at the ruins of Mole's Town, three thousand children, sick and elderly at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. He had fourteen giants and seven mammoths. He had sixty brothers of the Night's Watch who had sworn to help him. 

The Northern Lords had been silent. Houses Mazin, Hornwood, Forrester and Glenmore had sworn to fight for him. House Mazin brought one hundred and forty-three men, House Hornwood two hundred, Asher Forrester brought 52 men-at-arms and 30 levied peasants, alongside his sister Talia and thirteen pit fighters from Essos. House Glenmore brought thirty archers and ten spearmen. Four hundred and seventy-eight in total.

It was not enough. Houses Karstark, Umber, Ryswell, Dustin, Stout and Locke had all declared for Ramsay. The Umber's gave him two thousand, the Karstark's another two thousand, House Dustin and Ryswell a collective one thousand four hundred, House Locke eight hundred and House Stout two hundred. Ramsay Snow had a further six thousand. 

Ramsay had a grand total of twelve thousand, four hundred men, according to the skinchangers and wargs Jon had used to scout Winterfell and the North. He trusted them. Eagles had keen eyes.

Jon had just four thousand, four hundred and seventy-eight men and women, fourteen giants and several giants. 

It looked like this war was going to be harder than he thought. 

He was at Castle Black, scouring over a map of the North with his allies and advisors. Tormund, Val, Davos, Asher Forrester and Marund Wight-Slayer were with him. Silenced reigned. No one had any ideas left and it was getting late. One too many cups of ale had been drunk and no one could think straight. 

"I have an idea." Asher Forrester said and Jon resisted the urge to thump his head against the table. Forrester was a good man but by the Old Gods he could be a pain in the arse, his last 'idea' has been to attack Winterfell in a full on, all for nothing attack, seemingly forgetting they were outnumbered by eight thousand night.

"What is it Asher?" Jon asked wearily, already resting his head in his palm.

"Before we all die." Forrester said. "We have a good last fuck."

Even Tormund didn't laugh at the piss poor joke. Jon just shook his head and sighed.

"I think we should call it a night and come back to this tomorrow." Jon said finally and without a further word everyone left, eager to sleep and get out of the room they had been sat in for most of the day. 

Jon stayed behind, looking at the map of the North and willed his mind to think through his ever so slightly drunk and tried haze.

Then he noticed it. Lords Overton and Woolfield had not declared for Bolton, despite being Bolton bannermen. Slowly a plan came to his mind.

Bolton liked writing his letters, so did Jon.

That night he wrote two dozen letters, all of which were sent to lords that had yet to declare for him or Bolton. It was simple. Lord's Overton and Woolfield had betrayed the Bolton's and intend to march to Winterfell and pretend to be staunch Bolton supporters. When Jon met Bolton on the battlefield the Overton's and Woolfield's would betray Bolton and join him. Why was Jon telling them this? A sign that he trusted them to not betray his plans to the Bolton's, showing who they truly supported. 

When Jon eventually retakes Winterfell he will read through all of Bolton's correspondence to see who had betrayed him and who had not.

It would help in the long term, but for now he needed a plan to take the North from the Bolton's.

Who did the Northerners hate more than the Lannisters. The Free Folk. Who hated the Free Folk the most? The Umbers. 

It would start at Last Hearth.

_Robett Glover_

What a fool. The bastard must have ice in his head from his time at the Wall.

"Marwyn!" he roared and the soldier entered his solar quickly. 

"Yes milord?" the soldier asked. 

"Send for the maester." Robett commanded. "I have a letter I want to send to Winterfell."

The soldier saluted and left. Robett took a sip of his mead and smiled. If Bolton won he would believe he was loyal despite the fact he hadn't fought. If Snow won then he wouldn't know that Robett had warned Bolton. Either way House Glover was secured.

_ Lyanna Mormont _

Something was wrong about the letter. It just didn't seem right. Then again it might be what was. The last surviving son of Eddard Stark trusting the last Mormont.

She tossed the letter into the fire. She could not allow anyone to read it and betray Snow. Lyanna would not betray the trust Jon Snow had shown in her.

_Wyman Manderly_

Ned's bastard was smart. Wyman felt pride at himself for deciphering the hidden meaning behind the letter and felt a small amount for the cleverness Snow had shown. 

He clearly thought he would win if he was already rooting out disloyalty from the Northern Lords. Maybe that overconfidence would lead to his downfall.

He would not tell anyone about the letter. He would not inform the Bolton's of Snow's plans. He would watch and wait. No matter what House Manderly would survive the coming upheaval. 

_Marund Wight-Slayer_

King Crow had trusted him with eight hundred men to take south. He was to raid the lands around Last Hearth, drawing out the garrison of the fort and was to flee westwards to Long Lake, where King Crow would be waiting. 

Marund had five skinchangers with him. They knew where to take him when he scared the southerners out of their castle. He had not been there to save King Crow from the crows.

He would not fail him now.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Wight-Slayer becomes a Umber-Slayer and moves are made by the Flayed Man and the White Wolf

_Marund Wight-Slayer_

It had been a moon since he had marched south, leaving Castle Black with eight hundred Free Folk men and spearwives. He had divided his army into small warbands and they had set the lands around Last Hearth aflame, just like he was ordered to.

_"Burn their hamlets and farms, anger them and draw them out, bleed them every time. Then draw them west." King Crow said, his grey eyes as hard and cold as the lands he had been raised in._

The Umber's sent out small bands at first, not knowing the true size of the army Marund had brought upon them. Whilst they marched along frozen roads to the charred remains of a small village, armour jingling loudly enough to be heard at the at Hardhome, they sang. Marund did not know why. It just drew more attention to themselves. 

His warriors would then loose shaft after shaft into the singing fools, whittling them down to barely a dozen or so before they charged in with axe and sword and spear to finish off the small band that had marched out of their home barely three scores of men against his eight hundred. They took whatever they had, swords, shield, armour, and then left their bodies on the road for the next Umber patrol to find. 

This continued for weeks. They sent out more bands of men, but did not increase the number of them, and so they died. 

Then the time came. A rider arrived. He was a Crow. Marund was to reveal his full force to draw out the Umber's, fight them and bleed them before fleeing westwards to King Crow's army near the long lake.

And so he did. He summoned his warriors just north of the Umber castle and made it seem like he was preparing to siege the place. The Umber's had marched out with al of their strength. Torolf the Keen-Eyed (one of the skinchangers he taken south) said there was about nearly two thousand of them. 

They did not know that he knew of their coming, so he arranged a little surprise for them.

It was three day march from the clearing where he had camped to the Umber castle. The Umber's bled every step they took towards him, his archers hidden and swift footed.

But the day had come. Chained giant's painted on their kite shields. Swords drawn and glinting in the early morning light. Spears tips sharp and shiny. 

They outnumbered him almost two to one if his eyes weren't failing him yet. He gripped his steel blade, something he had taken off a dead Umber soldier. It was in good condition and decent quality. His dragon glass sword was sheathed on his hip. Good against the Wight's but not so much against steel and iron.

Marund had spent hours listening to King Crow talk about military strategy before he departed from Castle Black and managed to grasp the basics of it. He had dug trenches and built wooden spikes to protect his flank in the event the Umber's had cavalry. he had formed his men into a shield wall with spears at the front and had archers behind them. His spear wives held the right flank and the rest of his warriors held the left. 

The Umber's had placed their spearmen first, their swordsmen second and archers were at the rear. They had cavalry on their flanks, but they were small in number like the Umber archers. A giant of a man stood in front of his men, drawing a longsword in one hand and roaring. His men roared with him. Then they charged.

His archers let loose their shafts. They did not fire as one as the southerners did. Whilst the southerners inflicted a lot of losses at once, his Free Folk fired continuously. This caused the Umber's to loose many before they slowed their charge to raise and hide behind their shields. They made a formation that ensure every man was covered underneath a shield, and began a slow advance. 

Unable to kill as many southerners now as they could, his archers instead turned and let loose on the cavalry charging on the flanks. They crossed the frozen ground quickly, mist rising from the breathes of horse and man.

The southerner horsemen floundered as they were assailed by arrow after arrow. Horses that fell in the front tripped overs the horses behind them, creating a writhing, chaotic mess. They still charge, but their numbers had been reduced and they were few in number before then. He cheered with the Free Folk over the small victory over the Umber's but then a volley of arrows slammed into them, cheers changing into screams and cries of death and pain. His archers returned fire on the southerner archers and a viscous skirmish began between the archers on both sides. 

The main bulk of the southerners had neared them and upon realising they were no longer under threat of arrow fire, they charged wildly towards the centre of Marund's army. They roared. The Free Folk roared. And they the southerners crashed into the Free Folk. 

For a second all was still. The formation held and southerners fell under the quick jabs of spears. Then they were pushed back, the size of the southerners driving Marund and his warriors back. 

Marund pushed back, putting his weight behind his shield as the Free Folk behind him thrust their spears forward and the Free Folk next to him hacked with axe and sword. Marund pushed and hacked, the battle rage settling into his bones and driving him on, strength coming with his fury. Half a dozen southerners had fallen beneath his now blade before cries on the left turned his attention away from the fight.

The southerner horsemen had not broken through, but the southerners had extended themselves and where driving forward on the flank. He knew that they did not have much longer before it fell, so he did something he had only done once before when he had fought beneath the Wall at the Battle of Castle Black.

"Retreat!" he roared over the din of battle, grabbing onto nearby warriors and screaming in the faces to retreat. 

And so they did. It was a quick but chaotic. The Free Folk knew it was the plan and had been preparing to lead the Umber's into the trap for most of the battle, reminding their pride it was all part of the plan. 

Some where killed, stabbed and slashed in the back as they turned around and fled, but Marund managed to escape, alongside the majority of his men. The Umber's cheered and with quick, bellowing commands from the giant man they followed, emboldened by their apparent victory but slowed by their armour. 

Marund swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth as he ran, reminding himself it was all part of the plan.

_ Smalljon Umber _

They had been pursing the wildling scum for four days now. A messenger had been sent on horseback to alert his wife and son that he had won and were pursuing the remnants of the Wildling army. 

He had pushed his men past their limits, but the wildlings had apparently long ago reached theirs, judging by the amount of small skirmishes that occurred during the day as they caught up to ever increasing bands of exhausted raiders. 

He assumed they were somewhere near Long Lake by now, having reached and were now travelling south along the Kingsroad three days ago. For a moment he had paused, wondering why the wildlings weren't fleeing north, but he shrugged and cast aside his brief worries. The savage fuckers probably didn't know where north was.

Finally he stopped, resting his exhausted men for a bit. Gods knew he needed it too.

That's when the horns blew. All around them. Suddenly thousands of wildlings were charging to towards them with BY THE FUCKING GODS WERE THOSE GIANTS?

_Jon_

Marund had done his job and now the Umber army was no more. Around one thousand and four hundred laid dead or dying, the Smalljon amongst them. Jon had had the honour of slaying the oathbreaker himself.

The Umber's had been too tired to put up a real fight, though they had managed to kill one hundred or so of his men and many more were wounded. Some of the Umber's had had pikes, some of which managed to wound Fafzar Fradion Finnus Femvag, one of the six giants Jon had brought south with three thousand Free Folk and all of his Northern forces. 

Marund had just five hundred, loosing most of them during the battle just north of Last Hearth.

They would rest the night and then they would march on a very undefended Last Hearth as dawn. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bolton's are on the march and the rest of Jon's army springs a trap.

_Ramsay Bolton_

Jon Snow had defeated the Umber's and taken Last Hearth, taking the Smalljon's heir hostage alongside the now widowed Perra Umber, formerly Ironsmith.

It was an annoyance, nothing more or less.

Karhold was on the march north, travelling along the Kar's road at a swift pace, eager to avenge their fallen ally.

Ramsay remained in Winterfell, alongside four thousand men. He was waiting for the Ryswell's and Dustin's to arrive before he'd determine whether he would march north. He had ordered Locke and Stout to reinforce the Dreadfort, practically abandoned after he had ordered the Rodrik the Ruined to march northwards along the Last River to join the two thousand or so men with the Karstark's, evening the odds against the two thousand or so wildlings that the Stark bastard had at Last Hearth.

The bastard had surprised Ramsay. He had imagined the bastard would've charged straight to Winterfell, though perhaps he was biding time to attract more allies like the like the traitorous Woolfield's, Overton's, Hornwood's and Mazin's.

Ramsay had been tempted to deal with the traitors himself, but ultimately let Locke have his fun, as he was closer and had enough men to put down the rebellion before the Overton's and Woolfield's joined their minor strength to the Stark bastard's.

Ramsay was fine staying at Winterfell. He had a cozy hearth, a submissive wife with a nice cunt and enough supplies to last a siege in winter. The bastard could not say that. His desperate pleas for food and men before he had broken his oath to the Night's Watch had shown that.

Ramsay had been shocked to hear about the bastard's apparent resurrection. He had swiftly cast it aside however. The bastard faked it, probably hoping to sneak into Winterfell to rescue his sister.

Oh Ramsay could not wait until he had his hands on the bastard. The fun he would have would be make Reek the freak seem like a shiny knight.

But for now Ramsay had to be a good husband and visit his wife. He had to punish her for her brother's impudence.

_ Jon Snow _

The Free Folk were loud and thunderous. They clunked together mead horns and feasted on roasted meat, juices drippling off their beards. The few remaining Umber vassals were quite, timid and frightful. Though they drunk and at just as much. At least that meant the food was not poisoned.

Lady Perra Umber sat next to her nine nameday old son, Ned, who sat in the Lord's chair on Jon's left. Next to her sat Mors 'Crowfood' Umber and Lord Cassyon Lake, Lord of the Lonely Hills. Mors Umber was now the regent of Last Hearth until Ned Umber turned of age and had surrendered the castle, which had held only fifty guardsmen left to defend it, the Umber's losing nearly all of their men at the Battle of Last Hearth and the Battle of Long Lake.

Marund Wight-Slayer sat to Jon's right, with Asher Forrester and Lawrence Snow, who Jon intended to legitimise as the new Lord Hornwood., sat further down the high table.

Asher at and drank as merrily as the Free Folk, joking and jesting with Lawrence through the feast. Marund remained silent, his blue eyes with flecks of sea green observant and cold as he surveyed the feast. 

Jon did not blame Marund, whose father had been killed during a feast when visiting a rival clan in the Lands-Beyond-the-Wall. Jon himself was on edge, the memory of his brother Robb's betrayal and death close to his mind.

He sighed heavily, drinking a little more ale and ate a chunk of roasted goat meat. It was good, much better than anything he had eaten at the Wall. 

He turned to Marund, whose face had been sombre and hard for the past week. He had lost three hundred at the Battle of Last Hearth and the ensuing flight west then south. He felt each of those losses keenly. Amongst the Free Folk Marund was a legend, facing off and beating a much larger Thenn raiding party with just twenty men and spearwives to the Thenn's sixty or so. He had not lost a single man and had slain all of the raiding Thenn's.

"You look at me any longer and I'll start thinking you'll want to steal me Snow." Marund said sarcastically, turning his head to face him, mirth dancing in his cold eyes.

Jon snorted and chugged down some more of his mead, washing down the roasted goat.

"Your not my type Marund." Jon said, and the Free Folk chieftain laughed.

"Shame for you King Crow." Marund replied, drinking from a mammoth horn now half empty. 

The two fell back into a silence, before Marund turned to him, mirth gone and seriousness in his eyes. 

"I need to speak to you about something later." he said and Jon nodded in reply.

"After the feast." he said and Marund nodded before draining the rest of his ale and leaving the hall. 

Jon sat in silence, trying to ignore the fearful glances the boy to his left gave him every once in a while, as if he was as worse as the monsters that lurked to the north.

Jon turned to the boy, who looked pale and scared. Jon saw blue eyes and glinting daggers before he blinked and shook the images from his head. 

"Have you started training with the blade yet my Lord?" Jon asked the boy, who turned to face him, fear in his hazel eyes.

"No y-y-your grace." the boy stammered back and Jon smiled softly, hoping to put him more at ease in his own home. 

"I am no king my Lord." Jon replied and the boy opened his mouth and closed it again, looking like a fish.

"But the wildling called you King Crow." the boy asked, a small spark of curiosity in his eye. Jon had not told the surviving Umber's he had been the one to finish off the exhausted Smalljon and he did not intend to, lest he wished to become the second Stark within a decade to be killed by his own hosts. 

"It is a nickname for me." Jon replied. "The _Free Folk_ call the brother's of the Night's Watch Crows, because of their black cloaks and armour."

He had stressed Free Folk, hoping the derogatory term for the Free Folk was not heard. Some took it more to heart than others.

Ned Umber nodded and looked around his feasting hall.

"That makes sense." He said and Jon could not help but allow a small smile to grow on his face. Children were and always will be his weakness. Their innocence and curiosity something he was desperate to protect from the hardness of the real world.

Eventually the little Lord Umber became tired and the feast died down until none remained in the hall of Last Hearth.

Jon stood at the battlements facing south, wondering if Tormund and Val had succeeded with their mission, when Marund Wight-Slayer joined him, his faced as pale as a snow and hair coal black hair shining in the moonlight. 

"What is it you want to speak about Marund?" Jon asked, still facing south, his face a mask.

"To warn you about something." he said, not facing Jon either, his face as stony as the walls of Winterfell had been.

"What?" Jon asked, heart beating faster at the thought their was plot of betrayal being whispered amongst his own men once more.

"Val." Marund said, his voice soft upon hearing the pain and slight fear in Jon's voice that had slipped through. "She wants to steal you for her own."

Jon felt a mixture of relief, worry and a feeling he had not felt since Ygritte.

"Why do you say that like it's a bad thing?" Jon asked, worried Marund may want Val for his own and that he would become bitter and Jon would lose a good friend and commander.

"One of the Bloodfang's wish to steal her." Marund warned. "Wait for he to cut of his cock before you fuck her."

Then the Wight-Slayer turned and left, a small smile on his face at the blush that had spread across his friend's cheeks.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We catch up to Tormund and Val.

_ Val _

The forest loomed ahead, trees stretching out into the horizon like a wall. Tormund stood to her left, an army one thousand strong stood behind her.

Wun Wun grumbled next to her and Val smiled softly at the giant's complaints about the leather armour and patches of chainmail he had been forced to wear. King Crow had not spent his time at Castle Black idly, building chainmail and leather for the giants and mammoths. The lack of metals and leather limited the amount of armour they could make, but at least half a dozen giants had chainmail and leather armour only two of the mammoths were unarmoured. 

Val felt warmth rise inside her when she thought of King Crow. With his soft southern lips, always in a pout. His eyes as strong as steel and soft as a summer breeze. The rare smile that lit up his face. 

She shook her head, hoping to clear her mind of less than decent images of King Crow. 

"Alright we'll camp here tonight!" Tormund bellowed and the Free Folk spread out, Wun Wun and the several other giants King Crow had given them command of led the seven tired giants to graze on some grass a little bit to the east.

Val grabbed Tormund's arm as the redheaded giant walked away, angry he had not consulted her on the decision to make camp.

"Remember we are both in charge of this army Tormund." she growled angrily, her ire rising when the redhead who claimed to have fucked a bear just snorted. 

"Aye, and you've got your head in the snow dreaming of King Crow's pretty lips on your cunt." Tormund replied, shaking his arm off her grip, his eyes soft but tone hard. 

"You need to focus Val." He said, his pale blue eyes locked on hers to empathise his point. "Your the smart one so start acting like it."

Val nodded and the man strode away, bellowing orders and commands to Free Folk who obeyed them without question. She shook her head, feeling her respect for the man grow as he banished the thoughts of Jon Snow from her mind.

She walked through the camp, helping build fur tents where the Free Folk would sleep in. She talked and laughed and joked. She gave shared some mead with some of her spearwives and went to check up on the giants when a man, his head bald and teeth rotten brown, grabbed her from behind.

"I've come to steal ya." The man whispered in her ear, breath hot on her neck. 

"Go fuck yourself." Val snarled as the man pinned her arms to her sides so she couldn't reach for her knife.

The man chuckled darkly as a hand groped at her breasts. 

"I'd rather fuck you." he snarled and that was when Val threw her head back and into the mans nose. He yelled out and the grip on her loosened around her. She spun around and kicked the man, who she could see was Ralf Bloodfang, in the balls. As he fell to his knees, blood pouring from his bust nose and his hands holding his throbbing balls, Val drew her knife and held it to his neck.

"You try that again with me and I'll cut off your cock and make you eat it." she snarled as she pulled on the chieftain of the Bloodfang's hair, her knife nicking his skin.

Ralf nodded and she through him to the cold earth, sheathing her knife and storming off to where the giants were. 

Wun Wun sat atop a small hill, his giant brothers scattered around the herd of mammoths in a silent vigil over the furry beasts, who seemed more than happy to be rid of the leather armour they had been wearing.

"How is the herd?" Val asked in the Old Tongue and Wun Wun huffed.

"They are tired and dislike the warmth." The giant replied, causing Val to laugh lightly.

"What is funny?" The giant asked, a small frown on his features.

"We are going to be in the far south soon." Val replied, though her humour vanished and was replaced with concern. 

"Will the cope with the weather?" she asked and Wun Wun was silent as he contemplated his answer. 

"Yes." he said after several moments of silence. 

The two sat alone for a while in companionable silence. Wun Wun seemed okay with her presence, otherwise he would either openly tell her to go or rip her in half. 

Eventually she heard a ruckus in the main Free Folk encampment, and she hastily said goodbye to Wun Wun, eager to find out what was going on. 

"If we march through the night we can set up an ambush." she heard someone say and this was met with loud grumblings and protesting.

Tormund stood at the centre of the camp, a frown on his face as he stared at Thogeir Swift-Foot, a skinchanger who had been scouting out the southerners with a white sun on their cloths on spears, banners Jon Snow had called them.

"Val!" Tormund bellowed, spotting her honey coloured hair. "Where the fuck have you been?" 

"Checking on the giants and mammoths." Val replied, striding through the crowd that had parted for her to the centre of the camp, where Tormund and Thogeir stood facing one another.

"And?" Thogeir asked, causing Val to frown slightly. Thogeir had always believed himself to be more important than he actually was and had started to act like he was the one in command of the army, not her or Tormund.

"They are tired and need rest." Val said, deliberately ignoring Thogeir and looking at Tormund, causing the skinchanger to flush angrily and Tormund to grin slightly.

"See." Tormund said, gesturing to Val. "If the fucking giants of all things are tired how the fuck do expect the rest of us to be ready to fight?" 

The skinchanger spluttered for a few moments before he hung his head in defeat. 

"We'll march at the first crack of dawn!" Tormund bellowed and the Free Folk cheered him. They swiftly dispersed. Some to fuck. Some to drink. Some to joke. Some to sleep.

Val was amongst the latter, dreaming of battles and Jon Snow.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of the Red Field

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon/Val is not going to be a thing in this fic otherwise I would've tagged it as such.

_ Val _

The Free Folk were outnumbered. That was much was obvious, the line of southerners stretching far and wide.

Val and Tormund had agreed to hide their forces in the forests that lay on either side of the road the southerners marched on. They had split their army in two and would re-join each other after hacking through the southerners.

Jon Snow had called it an encirclement and Val believed that she and Tormund and the Free Folk would do the fancy sounding manoeuvre justice.

The southerners had a lot of cavalry, something that worried Val. She keenly remembered the Stag King’s devastating use of them during the Battle beneath the Wall.

“Wun Wun!” she whispered in the Old Tongue, the giant crouched nearby and turned his head to face her.

“Go for the men on the horses.” She commanded and the giant nodded, spreading the world to his giant brothers, who sat atop the mammoths. 

_ “Marund Wight-Slayer is a fucking genius.”  _ Val thought as she looked at the mammoths, who had a chain of sharpened bones and mammoth tusk between their own tusks. The bone chain could impale man and horse and she knew it would be devastatingly effective against the southerner cavalry.

Several moments of tense silence followed, the battle readiness settling upon her and the Free Folk who followed her. Some were calm, some were thirsting for blood and some were barely keeping themselves from shitting their pants.

Then a low horn blew from across the field and Val could see Tormund charge alongside hundreds of Free Folk towards the surprised southerners.

Then she was running alongside her Free Folk, Wun Wun at her side. Several giants riding several bellowing mammoths thundered out of the forest, causing the southerners to freeze with shock and fear.

The Free Folk descended upon them with like a storm. The air cracked and crackled with the sound of steel on steel, men dying and spearwives slaying. Wun Wun stepped on half a dozen trembling southerners, and Val plunged headfirst into the fray, a dagger and sword in each hand. 

Her dagger sank in the neck of a shaking, wide eyed southerner, whilst she blocked a blow to her right with her sword. Val was as quick and as deadly as a shadowcat, yanking her blade out of the southerner’s neck and stabbing it into the other southerner’s eye. The man screamed and shuddered, his bowels emptying as he died, adding to the rancid smell of blood and piss and shit.

Then the mammoths tore through the southerners, cutting them in half with their bone chains, trampling on them and shaking their mighty heads side to side, sweeping away hundreds of the southerners and some Free Folk with bone crushing strength.

The giants atop them bellowed and roared, steering the mammoths here and there, swinging away with tree trunks they had pulled from the ground, using them as ginormous clubs to crush and kill the southerners.

The roads and surrounding field became stained with blood and Val ducked and weaved and stabbed and hacked through the chaotic mess that had become of the battle. The southerners had lost hundreds of men, but they still had the numerical advantage and were surrounding the Free Folk, who fought in widespread clusters whereas the southerners fought in small but well-organized groups. 

The southerner cavalry lured the giants away from the rest of the southerner army, who began to reform and reorganize themselves in larger and larger groups across the fields and at the borders of the forests from where the Free Folk had come charging from.

Val quickly realised that the Free Folk had been surrounded and the shields painted with a white sun advanced towards the scattered Free Folk.

“Everyone come here!” she screamed over the din and soon the Free Folk were clustering around her, Tormund joining her and soon the entirety of the Free Folk army stood in a circle facing outwards as their enemies (who had extended their lines to link up and form a thin circle around the Free Folk) advanced slowly.

With roar Val led the Free Folk against the southerners once more. They were all battered, bruised and tired, yet the battle rage had settled within their blood, and they crashed into the southerners with the wintery fury of the true north, howling like the winds of winter.

The southerners held briefly, but they had spread themselves thin and were just as exhausted and battered as the Free Folk. Soon their line opened up and the Free Folk spilled through the breaches they had hewn.

Some southerners threw down their weapons and surrendered but the majority attempted to flee. Val ordered the Free Folk to not pursue them, knowing that they now faced the humongous task of looting and dealing with the dead.

Blood stained her face and hair, and her arms were heavy and tired. Her legs burned and her lungs ached. They had won. But it did not feel like a victory. Too many Free Folk had died, their bodies littering the red, bloodstained field and laying amongst the mounds of dead that had formed. 

Val and Tormund organized the Free Folk as best as they could. The wounded went to the healers and they set two dozen to watched over the thirteen prisoners they now had. The rest went amongst the dead, creating a pile of Free Folk and pile of southerner. Corpses were looted of everything they had, and Val tasked Thogeir Swift-Foot and the rest of the skinchangers to try and count the dead one each side, knowing Jon Snow would want to know just how many of their own had died and how many of the southerners they had slain.

Val joined her people, helping them drag mail clad southerner and fur clad Free Folk to one pile or the other. Tormund was next to her, unusually silent. He too knew that they had lost many, too many for this to be considered a great victory. 

The rest of the Free Folk were either grief stricken or singing as they worked. There would be a feast that night to celebrate their victory over the southerners and on the morrow, they would burn the dead and march north to re-join Jon Snow’s army. 

Val went off with Wun Wun and a dozen Free Folk eastward, where the other giants and mammoths had gotten lost after losing sight of the southerner cavalry, who Thogeir Swift-Foot said were heading back to their castle. 

Val could not bring herself to care, as tired and in need of some food and ale and sleep as she was. She would bring in the giants and sleep, a tiredness seeping into her bones as the last of her battle rage dripped away into exhaustion and aching limbs.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bird escapes its cage and a White Wolf sets his eyes on his next target.

_**Ramsay** _

There were very few moments when Ramsay felt a rage such as this. One that burned deep inside him and made him froth and snarl like one of his bitches. 

Karhold had been lost, its remaining strength swearing loyalty to Alys Karstark and Jon Snow. 

The two thousand men Ramsay had sent north to aid the Karstark’s had gone missing and Ramsay knew that Jon Snow had slaughtered them too.

Ramsay now had the strength of the Ryswell’s and Dustin’s at Winterfell, making his army 5,400 hundred strong. If he recalled the Locke’s and Stout’s from the Dreadfort then his army would be another thousand or so strong. Ramsay had also forced Lady Jonelle Cerwyn to send most of her remaining strength to Winterfell, adding a further hundred or so to his army.

The bastard was outnumbered, Ramsay just needed to force him into a pitched battle, where he could destroy him and his annoyance of a rebellion. 

Ramsay would win. Ramsay just needed to bait the bastard out from where he lurked in the north east. 

It seemed like a perfect opportunity to visit his wife.

**_Theon_ **

It was over. Reek was dead. He no longer screamed and raged and threatened and roared.

He whimpered, whispered, begged.

Theon watched carefully as two Bolton guards walked past him. Ramsay had increased the number of patrols when news of the Karstark’s defeat reached Winterfell.

Theon had to get Sansa out. He had to save her before she was completely shattered and broken by Ramsay and his cruelty.

Theon watched as the guards rounded a corner and disappeared. He moved, silent as a cat, and turned right, sneaking up the winding steps to Sansa’s rooms. More like a cell.

There were no guards. The door was locked. And only two people had a key. Ramsay. And Theon.

He unlocked the door and opened it quietly. He wasn’t supposed to be there and if the guards heard then they would investigate and find him. Probably kill him too.

Theon wanted to die. But first he had to save Sansa. He had tied a rope against a secluded corner on the northern battlements. He and Sansa could escape from their and head north to Last Hearth, where Jon was last reported to be.

They could escape. And they would.

_**Sansa** _

When she heard the door, creek open she knew it was not Ramsay. He liked to kick the door down and startle her. 

Her visitor was Reek. The remains of Theon.

Sometimes she could pity him. Most of the time she did not feel anything, Ramsay’s cruelty making her numb to the world.

“Sansa.” Theon whispered, standing by the door he had closed. “Come with me.”

“Of course.” She said, standing up and walking over to him. Her husband wanted her. That was not a good sign. The last time he did he showed the flayed corpse of an old woman who was just trying to help her.

They crossed and twisted through dimly lit hallways. The familiarity of them made her want to cry. She could remember happiness. Of laughing with Jeyne Poole. Robb’s smile. Jon brooding. Arya running wild. Bran climbing. Rickon trying to walk. Of Mother and Father smiling as they looked at them all.

Before she was raped, defiled, tortured.

It mattered little what happened to her anymore but by the gods please say they did not have Jon.

It turned into something different. She didn’t realise they were on the battlements facing north. She didn’t realise she was climbing down a rope and waiting for Theon at the bottom. She didn’t realise she was walking away from the nightmare that had become Winterfell.

Then hope sparked within her, burning away her numbness with a fury that would’ve made a Baratheon proud. 

She was going to her brother. She was going to help him gather allies. She was going to get revenge on her rapist.

She would reunite with what remained of her pack.

The lone wolf dies. But the pack survives.

_**Jon** _

Bolton banners blew weakly in the faint breeze. Bodies littered the frozen ground and some floated in the cold waters of Last River.

The skinchangers had spotted the Bolton army a week ago and Jon had taken the time to organize a ambush at the easiest crossing point this part of Last River.

Arrows had torn through the unsuspecting Bolton’s. Then the giants smashed their way through them, followed by a horde of a thousand roaring Free Folk.

The dead were still being counted, and Jon strode through the battlefield, surveying the work of his men as they looted and separated the dead. The Bolton’s would burn. Jon let Marund Wight-Slayer decided on what to do with the bodies of dead Free Folk.

Marund was on his left, hilt on the steel sword he had acquired sometime before the Battle of Last Hearth. Jon had spent some of his free time teaching the Free Folk chieftain how to look after the blade and Marund had in turn taught his men to do the same with their weapons. 

When he heard news of the Bolton’s advance, he had sent Ned Umber and his mother to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea for their protection. He did not know the size of the Bolton army and thought that the Bolton bastard had brought all his strength against him. 

It had not been the army of the Bolton bastard, but rather the garrison of the Dreadfort, led by Rodrik the Ruined. Their orders had been to join their strength with the Karstark’s, not hearing anything about the Battle of the Red Field as the Free Folk had taken to calling it, naming it so over the amount of loses they had suffered. 

Tormund and Val were marching north, six hundred at their back alongside two hundred Karstark cavalry sworn to Alys Karstark, who had declared herself for him.

They had lost four hundred, suffering even more wounded who might not be able to fight for him.

Jon turned to Marund; whose face was hard as he looked at a Bolton banner. Jon had grown fond of the Free Folk warriors’ company. He was man of few words but was shrewd and intelligent, a fast learner to everything Jon taught him about the North.

Jon wondered if Marund would accept becoming a bannerman and lord of a keep, the gods knew there were plenty of lordless keeps nowadays, the War of the Five Kings and the Red Wedding culling the North of many of its lord and heirs and men.

Marund would make a loyal bannerman if he accepted. That was more than what Jon could say for the Dustin’s, Ryswell’s, Bolton’s, Locke’s and Stout’s.

Jon gripped the hilt of Longclaw tightly as he thought of their betrayals. 

Bolton. Frey. Lannister. Greyjoy.

Winter was coming for them all and now Jon knew that the seat of House Bolton was lightly defended.

The Dreadfort would fall. Then Winterfell will. And the Jon will save his sister and kill the Bolton bastard as slowly as possible.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dreadfort is besieged and the Bolton Bastard is on the march.

** _Jon_ **

It was a sight that once filled him with pride and joy. Now it was bitter remorseful. 

He had three thousand and nine hundred men, where he had started with four thousand and seventy-eight. 

Jon would've had three hundred less men had Alys Karstark and Ned Umber not given Jon their remaining strength.

Is this how Robb felt? Winning battle after battle but losing the war?

Jon had sent Alys Karstark to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea with Ned Umber, knowing the fate of the two should the Bolton bastard defeat him, something Jon was very intent on not letting happen.

His army had surrounded the Dreadfort at it's full strength and had found it much more defended than Jon originally thought. 

The Locke's and Stout's had garrisoned the Dreadfort, putting it's strength at the very least a thousand strong. 

Not good. 

What made the situation worse was that Ramsay Bolton had finally marched out of Winterfell with a host of Bolton's, Dustin's and Ryswell's roughly five nearly six thousand strong. When they arrived they would trap Jon's army against the walls.

So Jon went to work making sure there were no walls to be trapped against. He enlisted the help of Ser Davos, who sailed up the Weeping Water pretending to be a supply vessel to relieve the Dreadfort garrison, which was starving as Ramsay had sent the majority of the North's supplies to Winterfell.

Jon had made sure the Free Folk would 'attack' the ship as it pushed up river, Jon smiled when he heard the cheers from the Dreadfort as it made trough to them. They were quickly silenced when Marund Wight-Slayer fired a single flaming arrow at a by then empty boat (Ser Davos jumping out into the freezing waters just before it reached the Dreadfort) and it arced in the air before thudding into the boat, filled not with food but pitch. 

The screams of burning men filled the air for the next two days. The fire had raged for one. 

The last entrance for supplies into the Dreadfort was cut off and now the garrison was starving.

That was when Jon unleashed the giants. 

They had at first punch, kicked and battered the stone walls, shaking and weakening them, but not breaking them. Then they had climbed over them, wreaking havoc from inside the Dreadfort.

With the defenders distracted by several giants running amok within the castle, Jon and Tormund had climbed the walls with a dozen Free Folk, the best clumbers. They had climbed 700 feet of ice together and the walls of the Dreadfort seemed paltry compared to that. 

However they did struggle as they could not use ice picks to dig into the stone walls of the Dreadfort like they did to the Wall. But through determination and a rather hook create by Marund (who spent a lot of time with Mance Rayder and Jon talking about castle walls and ways to get over them) Jon and Tormund clambered over the Dreadfort's defences and then ran to the gate, easily cutting through trembling and scattered Locke and Stout men.

Then they had opened the gate, three thousand Free Folk spilled through and had put the Stouts and Locke's to the sword. The Dreadfort was looted of its wealth and valuables (mostly stolen from Winterfell and House Stark in the first place) and then Jon had burned the seat of House Bolton to the ground with pitch.

Some saw the fire were so large that they were seen all the way at Winterfell.

Now Jon stood atop a nearby hill above the charred and smoking ruins of the once formidable Dreadfort. Jon had taken it in just three weeks, but his ancestors did not have the might of fourteen giants to help them take the fortress of the Red Kings of old.

Three giants were blinded by tar that the Dreadfort's defenders had poured onto them from the walls when they had tried punching their way into the Dreadfort. One of the giants had died. Fafzar Fradion Finnus Femvag, who had not fully recovered from his wounds he had taken at the Battle of Long Lake, had perished with nearly a hundred arrows and two dozen crossbow bolts in him. It had taken a dozen pikes to finally bring low the mighty giant.

The mourning cries of his brothers was a saddening and terrifying thing, for it was Fafzar's death that gave the giants the strength to climb over the walls and smash apart the Dreadfort from the inside.

Val had set the blinded giants to tend to the mammoths, the rest of them had taken Fafzar's body somewhere and had buried it in a place where no man could find nor desecrate it.

The wind was cold and harsh, smoke in the air and its acrid fumes filled his nostrils. Marund stood to Jon's left, Tormund was on Jon's right. The army was on the march south, Jon intended to cross the Weeping Water where it poured into the Shivering Sea, then march to Hornwood. Jon had sent Val north to the Lonely Hills with four hundred Free Folk to bleed and slow Ramsay's army, who were advancing on the ruins of the Dreadfort from the Lonely Hills.

They would hide in the snows and attack at night. They would poison water supplies, burn food and free horses. Anything that would cause havoc amongst the Bolton army and whittle down their strength and morale, which was held tenuously anyway. Fear was a good motivator and fear was something Ramsay used frequently to keep his men in line. But fear only worked when you were the scariest thing around.

When demon savages rose form the snow and killed your comrades would you stay and fight out of fear of the man who cowered behind numbers or flee and run away from the creature about to slaughter you?

Jon smiled darkly. Ramsay Snow would know fear before the end.


End file.
